Exhaling Love Taps
by Daedalus Plum
Summary: Stories that haven't happened and can't be told...Warnings: Drug use, slash none of it's squicky...


"Is there something to be said for the simplicity of a story?"

And he just laughed. He always just laughed.

And I smiled back, sadly resigned to this damnable fate that hindsight always recognized a moment too late.

He always just laughed. If I asked how was school, if I asked about the rain, if I asked about anything…he didn't distinguish small talk from the these things that were digging away at me…a pickaxe ever at work against an ice shell, ever-replenishing, but so brittle.

I looked down at my feet and scrutinized my shoes. Holes…hmm. Rugged. Appropriate foot attire, I was sure, although I'd known others to snidely disagree.

"What do you mean?"

My head was jerked up by a thumping surprise within my chest. He never asked questions. Questions were forbidden.

"Well…I don't know," I answeblack, but hurried on in case he felt like laughing some more. "We're born, we live, we die…but where's the thrill in that? A story…it's kind of the same, I guess. Beginning, middle, end, right? But, it's so defining…"

Silence.

"If I didn't have anything to say about how math class went, or that time I snuck out, or the thing that happened to my parents…what would we talk about? But, it's all so simple. Because all my stories ultimately lead—here."

_Next to you. This is where everything always leads. Sitting next to you on the steps, imagining something deeper than a relationship of forbidden questions…they are forbidden, aren't they? That's why you never ask them…and why you always laugh. My whole life is just a story without wonder._

"Ron," he said at last, "you think too much."

But before I looked back at my shoes to contemplate the fashion statement of duct tape again, I look at your eyes…and see wonder. What are you wondering?

And I almost ask. But I could never ask that. No. I'll just sit here and study the holes in my shoes, and ignore other things that feel as torn.

Should I tell you the story of what happened in band?

Should I tell you about how I got out of being grounded again?

Should I tell you anything?

No…not now. Right? Is that what your silence means? But your silence means so much…

I look up from my shoes to look at your eyes again, for some hint of what to do.

They're hidden behind a veil of hair. Black hair. Dark, shadowy hair...

Why is this Golden Boy so dark?

I reach out to you. I want to take your hand, squeeze it kindly, reassure you.

I don't. I hit you on the shoulder. _A punch for a kiss, a punch for a kiss…_

This is my kiss to you. That is my love, I guess. A slug on the shoulder and a chuckle of dismissal…do you hear what it means? God—that would be a fearful thing. A wondrous, fearful thing.

"Come on, Ron," you say, rising and brushing invisible cement dust from your jeans.

I stand too. Can I punch away whatever is darkening your brow? I doubt it…but it's all I can do to try.

I hit you again, lightly. _Love tap…_

"Cheer up, Harry," I say reassuringly, somehow rolling the loveliness out of the name for the bitterness of its implications.

"I'm fine," you say, giving me a gleaming smile…but I can't see his eyes. "Stop being so sappy!"

There's a laugh in your voice. Whatever honesty there had been in the last few minutes was gone.

"Hey guys!" comes a call across the school courtyard. "Come on! We've got some!"

I cringe…especially when I notice the eagerness in your gait.

"You coming, Ron?"

I takes me a moment to realize I haven't moved.

"Yeah," I say passively. "Sure."

At least I'll be close to him…at least I'll go a little numb, too.

I just can't stand the numbness in him.

"How was quidditch?" asks Dean when I catch up.

"Ten saves," I say, sharing the joke.

And I take a hit. It doesn't feel good. It doesn't taste good. It's bitter, it's cowardly, it's sour and lazy…I inhale deeply.

Maybe they won't notice me.

Maybe he will.

Maybe everything works out.

It probably doesn't.

But I think about the story I want to tell him. A simple story…a love story. Or, not so simple. Boy loves girl? If only…

Besides, how can I tell a story with no middle or end?

There's not even, really, a beginning.

I pass it on, and hold the smoke in my breath, going green and blue all at once…blood churning on the yellow haze. I hold it in to take pain away from the story that never was.

Will never be.

And I never exhale.


End file.
